Body Manifesto
by Vespertine Noir
Summary: Desperation thrived in certain blood. As well as in the obsession for old haunts. Cobb, newly rehabilitated and a reinvented man, after functioning in the real world he is again spirited away into the very depths of a one-time life...summary cont'd
1. Matchstick Men

Summary: Desperation thrived in certain blood. As well as in the obsession for old haunts. Cobb, newly rehabilitated and a reinvented man, after functioning in the real world he is again spirited away into the very depths of a one-time life. With a fresh conquest in sight, it is established that the team's overconfident decadence may jeopardize the mission as the Mark fails to submit to the ease of a routine extraction...

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**Body Manifesto**

**…an Inception fic**

**Chapter One - Matchstick Men**

Every moment he returned from insignificance, he realized just how far he'd fallen upon returning. A vapid inflation swelled his chest up towards the sky as his mind flicked on like an ON/OFF switch and Cobb would always awake with a chronic fear that made its home in his stomach.

He rolled over and the minutes would tick by as logic rattled about his brain of that of which he couldn't grapple why the right side of the nuptial bed wasn't warm- that it hadn't been in some time. His forearms snaked over to the spot where _she_ had once had her coffee curls splayed. And he buried himself deep into those pillows as a fresh wave of regret ate up his lungs and carved up his throat 'til empty sobs jerked him senselessly and he knew he could no longer exist here.

But he had grown into content with only the thought of her, even in knowing that he'd betrayed his memories in barter for a ghost and that he had no choice now but to grow content with content.

Comforted though, that the air on which she'd moaned as she cradled him between her legs, held his bulk within her as she came hard for him and carried the life out of her- that if he listened hard enough, it still lingered; comforted, that the air holding one of those cries asserting that she was still _here_- where she had fallen into dust whether of skin or a silken strand he found now and again from some stowed away sentiment.

It was winter. Although that was irrelevant but he believed that if surely there was a heavenly God, his fate would come knocking because for all the shit he'd chocked up in his past time and time again it was presumed that in due course there would only be a season for the wicked. He knew it, of course not certain how but nonetheless it was there in his bones as he woke up this morning with nothing far from the particular and did his routine. For he could only wait.

He shaved, the blades scathing across his skin like the stroke of a woman's fingernails. He found it easing, the triviality of things like it. Because it proved that he was still here when he could appreciate the indebtedness he felt when he held his children or went to his 9 to 5- for he had procured the stuff of life.

The hot spray of water peppered his skin as he stepped into the shower then secured the door in place. The little beads of verve pelted validation into his sinews as he tilted his head upwards and the liquid streamed from his soaked hair over his closed eyes, collected in his mouth and finally slipped down his saturated body. He outstretched his arms and took in the flesh of his lightly freckled muscles, turning the limbs over and over trying to find himself within them. But he couldn't because she was no longer here, and she had not for quite some time, he reminded himself.

Cobb went through her second death again, it surely as hell felt that way because after he'd given up his one escape he'd took to the attic or crawlspace- where the fuck ever- and torn into her cast off things.

**VVV**

He took the stairs down two at a time, to meet bacon fat rendering- singeing the air and that of toast which dissipated all his bad spirits. Sabine, perched over the hot stove, turned at the disturbance of her atmosphere and the smile on her face dying instantly at realizing that it was indeed her son-in-law.

"Good morning," her heavy tongue wrapping around the greeting distastefully.

Despite the animosity this early in the morning, he marched over to her and pressed his lips against her delicate cheek. "Good morning, Maman." No matter how he tried he didn't think the woman could ever like him.

"You'll spoil their breakfast," he muttered. Since he was not on any sort of mission to gain allies this morning he sought to go all out.

"And what," her salt and pepper hair tightly bobbed, swirled about her face as her hands gesticulated each syllable. "Let them go hungry waiting for some w-what you call this Santa breakfast?"

Cobb detoured from the woman's stronghold and wandered over to the table where Phillipa had an unsteady fist clenched into her hair.

"Hi, baby." He kissed his daughter upon the head as he steadied her hand from pulling at the flaxen and toffee locks. "Where's your brother?"

"Morning Daddy," she replied. Her sweet face lit up in a glow that he was sure was one of the things promised to go with him to the grave. "He's-"

"He's outside, or is that a problem for you too Dominic?" At this point Sabine had all but forgotten the bacon and eggs, for at present the spatula was being waved in the direction of the sliding door.

No matter how hard he tried the woman would always fight him in everything. A frustrated sigh blew past his lips as he scraped up his sleeve and looked at his watch.

"Phillipa, ma petite, let the bow alone. It makes you look pretty." The woman warmed by degrees as she called out to her granddaughter.

The doorbell rang.

"Honey, eat what you can." He rose to his feet from the table to call in James.

The doorbell rang again, stopping him in mid stride and in a half-hearted turn he deterred from his path to the sliding door. "Make sure your brother eats," he says.

Quickly his legs worked to devour the short distance to the front door as he impatiently sent a hand furrowing through his sandy locks. He swung the door open on the same stride and breath.

Before his eyes could fully recognize and take in he realized he'd fallen back into his old trappings. The familiar slick back, a tan leather jacket, and that guarded smirk stared back at him. But he was certain the look returned to him held any pleasant regard at all.

Wordlessly, he gripped the door with the meat of his knuckles white and trapped in the limbo of inaction- fighting the compulsion to send it flying on its hinges. But all he could muster was the stupid look upon his face.

"Cobb," the now considered stranger greeted him.

He couldn't help it, the nostalgic crinkle that tore at his eyes. A few moments transpired as he fought within himself for some response; but settled for silently moving aside indicating the invitation, all the while staring at the other man as he walked over the threshold. He didn't quite understand what he was seeing before him, or more so the solidity of the person before him.

Cobb hoped he could gather his composure- but nevertheless he grasped him by the shoulders and brought him into a tight hold. Then another thought occurred to him, this was not a social call of remembrance. For surely that would've happened some time ago.

"It's been too long," Arthur agreed. His brow shot up, creating lines of genuinely fond reminiscence.

There was a fall in Cobb's soul because he knew what this meant and he was damned sure he'd do anything by all means to avert what he knew might possibly ensue.

At that moment Sabine walked in, her hands worrying the dishcloth within her clutches. The atmosphere was obvious and she took in the austere look of her son-in-law and that of the visitor. "Hello- ah," she was uncertain of how to acknowledge the man and noted Cobb did nothing to reassure her. "Dominic, the children are asking for daddy to join them."

If he'd told you he'd ever deny his children of anything perhaps just moments before this man came to call, he'd name you a liar and stick a fucking right hook into your face. But today, today was quite different on so many levels. He held out a placating hand.

"Tell them I'll be there. Please, let me see to-" he was at present slightly flustered and thought best to give no name. He simply under acknowledged Arthur's presence and did no more. "I'll be there soon, okay? On second thought, make sure they're ready within an hour's time."

That was enough to assuage the fight in her.

She had the same coloring of her daughter, the effortless majesty of her hands, frame. He had been right to ask her to be here, for the children. They needed the mothering _she_ had once had.

But he could also tell she was not pleased. Of course he couldn't begrudge her of it because this man was plausibly here to take him away, or the closest to that by uprooting their routine. But she spoke nothing of the contempt budding in her eyes, simply turned on her heel and walked away with her back ramrod straight and without further conceding the importance of either man.

"Come with me," he wagged his finger in no particular direction.

His once close comrade followed his footfalls, Arthur's hands tucked deep in his denim pockets as they traversed the tight hallway.

Arthur looked about him, this being the first time in a long while he'd laid foot in Cobb's home. This place was Cobb, certainly, for it had it on him: the somber notes of his remnant sorrow muting out the warm hues of the once happy walls.

Cobb proceeded to usher him into a small office space, which smelled of sun seared furniture, lemon pledge, and held a desk littered with paperwork, photographs, and the artwork of his two young children.

"That's what I get for riding off into the sunset," Cobb offhandedly commented in poor taste.

He realized that this was the first time he spoke to the man. And perhaps he didn't bother with niceties, seeing there was no need for either to hide behind or dance about why he had come here.

Arthur, nonetheless, decided upon making himself comfortable by shedding his light jacket then pushed up the sleeves of his gray thermal and seating himself. He chuckled.

Silence hung heavily between the two men as the last memory of each other flitted through Cobb's mind.

"Cut the bullshit and save us both the time and effort." Cobb looked away and stared out past the sliding doors, setting his gaze upon the sweltering rays of the near cresting sun.

He looked down at his TAG Heuer and surely he imagined he heard the laughter of one of his children sifting through the kitchen and walls.

The buoyancy quickly vanished as Cobb's tone became more serious, detached. "What is it you want, Arthur?"

"So much for the warm welcome, huh Cobb. I thought we were better than that." There was little amusement on his face either for he was just as eager as the other to be more direct at getting to the point.

"I'll only ask one more time. What is it you want from me?"

Arthur cleared his throat and decided against the speech of rallying he'd constructed delicately. He never was one for words and shit. After all, what could you say to a man who'd grown soft with the contentment of grasping an almost lost happiness? What would make him leave that?

"Eames is calling on a favor."

Arthur and Eames? Since when- shit, he'd been gone for _too_ long.

"Fuck you," he blurted.

He had not meant to but one could hardly fend off old passions civilly. "How dare you? After three years you come back with this? I have my life back," his gaze broke away into the direction of the kitchen and he remembered himself.

His lips smacked audibly as he gathered himself and lowered the voice of his anger, "What happened is water under the bridge, I don't owe Eames shit."

There was a tight grimace on Arthur's face as though he fought with everything in him to topple the legend. "What, you feel like you're the only one with blood on your hands?"

Cobb knew the only thing chiding Arthur's tongue was their lengthy history and after all this time he still couldn't separate himself from his subordination.

Arthur's jaw clenched and he brought himself to look hostilely at the man before him. What he felt was disloyalty. Nothing short of betrayal. "You look like you want to say something else," he said.

"I don't owe anybody anything." He paused. "Nor you."

"But if that's your verdict then you have some fucking nerve," his finger jabbed at the desk.

Cobb cut him a side-shot glare.

Arthur's fingers tented upon the wooden table and rapped three times before he cooled then shifted to a new tactic. "Then for old time sake."

"Look, I don't want my family to go through anymore of this. It's too soon." But the old haunts already had their hooks deep into his flesh. "I mean- shit, I'm taking my kids to Breakfast with Santa."

"Okay," Arthur relented.

The thought though was simply ludicrous- laughable almost, coming from a man who at one time partook of white collar thievery, had been fucked up on a regular basis, or living from hotel room to jet setting. But he suddenly found the sarcasm biting at his tongue not quite so sweet. There were more demons in the man before him than ever, probably ones Cobb didn't know were lying in wait.

Cobb turned away, his gaze again fixated upon the outside as though he gave a shit beyond what was transpiring here.

Arthur drew himself to his feet, composure intact. His lips twitched as though he wanted to translate the gleam in his eyes but his tongue would not abdicate so he settled for clearing his throat and reaching for his jacket.

His fingers slipped inside the breast pocket of the jacket and withdrew a business card.

"I'm here for three days," he scrawled a number on the empty back. And that was all he said. He wouldn't solicit beyond this, his ego wouldn't have it.

He turned the slip of card stock over and over between his fingers, uncertain then placed the card upon a nearby stack of paper. He stared for a second at the back of Cobb's now slumped frame then showed himself out.

Cobb knew when he was quite alone, by the light footfalls of his ex partner receding then the distant connect of the door falling into place.

He would get to have breakfast with his children this morning, but so much for ever after.


	2. The Blood is Temporary

**Chapter Two – The Blood is Temporary**

The air hit the back of her knees like a cool gust, where she had smeared the perfumed oil. Her thumb gently pressed against the vial's circular entrance, the indentation upon her ridged skin, and then the release of the flow of mellow but pungent, woodsy fragrance with its underlying vanilla notes garroting and parching the back of her throat.

A slip of slate gray crown molding, a fleeting breath of the blare of the life outside her French doors leading out unto the balcony, to the ever there blackness marring the night sky- no stars this night.

There is a despondent look in her eyes as she mechanically rolls on a pair of stockings and proceeds to dress. Seated upon a hassock before the bedroom vanity, her reflection isn't spared the hopelessness despite not looking into the eyes of her mirror twin; because if she does then the world might materialize and the brown warmth of her skin _might_ disperse and there'd be nothing of her left.

**VVV**

A plate exchanges hands before her face and anxiously she tosses her head in a succession of dark curls with the light tinkering of tin streaming from each earlobe which suggests that she _is_- now somewhere foreign and distant that her flesh won't accept. She shudders and shakes as though she can flash away the avarice of the submerging nightmare- but she recalls where she is and that at present a lively smile was supposed to be splayed across her fuck-me-red stained lips. And she manages to find one.

She brought the mulled cider to her lips- on account for the knocked up honoree- willing for the joy to somehow make it into her pessimistic eyes. She is surrounded by a chaos of the homely palette of chic browns, turquoises, maroon, and golden champagne upon wallpaper, furniture, and even the people themselves.

Suddenly, there was silence as one by one every head turned in a series of collagen lips and prodded the never-sexless things to gawk in her direction, expectantly. But she could only manage to look past each souring expression, over a few head tops to her beaming "friend"- who was supposed to be a close companion and whom the ripe dawn of expectancy caressing her youth, beauty, and the hand close by her belly.

Her fingertips smoothened out the imaginary fluff before she registered her name being called.

"Evelyn?" A weighty pause. "Evelyn, it's your turn."

She laughed, "Oh, yes." That laugh and light however did not make it to those brown, faraway eyes.

She could still see it on their faces, the contempt. Even pity. And for the life of her she could not discern why she was still here, amongst the throngs of self-important silver tongued liars, whores- those not unlike herself.

Evelyn reached her manicured hand beneath her leather-upholstered armchair and pulled out a bag stuffed with last minute tissue paper stuffed over fandangles. She didn't even care enough for the reaction of the over-indulged woman; after all, she was only here at the bequest of the other friend Sara and her urging at it being right for "keeping up appearances".

But she'd found herself falling more and more into said despondency. It had fed upon her eyes and now found itself wading in her belly.

**VVV**

A touch at her elbow brings her back down to earth.

"Evelyn, are you alright?" Sara. She was such a good friend but none of that mattered through her muddle.

She blinked, registering the woman's existence. "Yes," she lied- finding that it was just as easy as existing. She could do it with her eyes closed, one hand tied away, and dancing upon one leg and still retain her regal composure. Because Evelyn Marlowe, the woman, was a fraud.

"You know sometimes I don't know who to believe," Sara's brow furrowed, "the Napoleon in your spine or the friend in me that's concerned for you."

Evelyn was taken aback. But this was after all Sara, her closest confident- were she to ever digress from her inner fixation with self-preservation. Her hand shook a little as she ladled a generous amount of spiced red punch into her tumbler, betraying the falter in her cool.

"Why would you say something like that," she inquired unenthusiastically.

Her mouth drank deeply even greedily almost, her tongue playfully swishing about the wet in her mouth all the while rearing her heels refusing to be bested by even someone so close to her.

She continued, "If we were less great of friends I'm not sure if I could take that any other way than an insult." The bluff.

Her friend's eyes rounded- her voice lowering at the momentary intrusion of two leggy as they were chesty partygoers walked by. "You _know_ that's not what I meant."

"Well you sure as hell were insinuating that I was a liar," she scoffed.

Any self acknowledged hypocrite knew they would crumble shamefaced, when spotted red-handed. But certainly not one who was bred and cultured under particular circumstances and was on the defense, confirming an evident deception despite the deflection.

"Babe, please. I'm only afraid for you. It scared the shit out of me the last time you went off," the pair of them strolled away involuntarily unto the beach coast balcony out into the wild, open night. "Went off- for weeks without saying a word- what's in your head? What _is_ going on with you Evee?"

She again brought the glass to her lips in answer, resolved in keeping her quiet. The only sound was of the ice searching about the inside of the tumbler and the low moan of the wind passing over and around the apartment. The hem of the wine colored dress lapped at her thighs, the gust a tormented rapture upon her vulnerability.

"Fair enough," replied Sara. "Knowing you, I suppose it'd be difficult enough."

The night air was fierce in its stagnancy; the atmosphere sluggish, both moist and hot like breath upon their skins. There was no need to speak afterwards for Sara couldn't speak anything worthy enough to interrupt the finality of the recluse building within her friend.

After some time she spoke. "I had to take you out of there, it's like you're not even with me here." Sara exhaled frustrated. Her long auburn locks curtained across her back as her breasts pressed into the wooden railing and her elbows bore down for a better look at the surf below.

The tide came in moon glazed, of almost molten glass-like tranquility disrupted and fraying at its fringes- riding in on lazy, frothy undulations and seducing both women into complacency.

"Why did you ask me to be here then," Evelyn asked. "Sylvia could care less whether I'm belly up. She likes the attention and you're an enabler. It's disgusting." There was now an acrid grin marring her face, she looked into her drink now that what was left of her was lost in the sea. She consumed the remaining contents in one gulp but still couldn't abate increasing disgust.

Sara reasoned, "I know you need the company."

A breathy laugh escaped the other girl who suddenly had taken on austerity in her face. "Not you too, Sara. I hate this. You mean well, but you're not helping. And I _don't_ want your pity, as a matter of fact I'll hate you for it."

"I stand here and I am everything that I'm ever going to be. You realize that?" Tears sprung up and Evelyn fought desperately to curb the flow. She wouldn't cry, for she hadn't done that for herself in many years.

"Look in there," she pointed to the sliding door and further into the room of women whom she could no longer identify with. "That was never me, you can continue on with that because I do commend you for being able to do so. But I will no longer have any of it. Be _that_. I am done."

She wanted to tell her friend that her affairs were in place, but between the hurt in her throat and the shaking of her hands she lost all fortitude. And then just like that the moment was gone and she'd find a way to sleep at night- this particular night.

Evelyn- she was beginning to question if life itself would be enough to pin her to the soil for she was so tired. She leaned into the warm body next to hers, out of sheer need for physicality and also perhaps to know that there was someone on this shit-filled heap that cared whether she was here or swept away by a tempest.

Their foreheads melded and hazel eyes delved into her depths forcefully, "Can we talk about it?"

Fingers pinned down her flighty soul as they fought to compel warmth into her skin.

Evelyn shook her head. _No_.

"Eve and her secrets," her friend whispered.


End file.
